


Three

by secretlycrazy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretlycrazy/pseuds/secretlycrazy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fluff piece about John, post-fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever piece of fanfic, so I'd love feedback on it.

Three days, and I was numb. Sleep deprivation will do that to a person. The only time I felt anything was when I awoke, screaming and drenched in sweat, yelling for him not to jump. When he didn’t come to see what was wrong, the numbness returned. It was a welcome relief from the pain. I wished that the other nightmares would come back, the ones from the war. They were terrible, but anything was better than watching him fall, over and over again. Sometimes I watched from the ground, others from the roof, but no matter where I was, I could never stop him jumping. And every time, it hurt worse than the first. 

During the day, I’d just sit in the flat, sometimes staring at a book I wasn’t reading. Not the tellie - Mrs Hudson had switched it on once, and the news had still been reporting about him. Seeing them talk about him like that just brought back the pain. Most of the time I sat and stared at his chair, imagining he was still in it, complaining or playing his violin. The flat was too quiet without him.

Occasionally, I’d pull out my phone, expecting one of the constant texts he used to send me. 

Bored -SH

We’re out of milk -sH

Make me tea -SH

The only messages were from loved ones, checking how I was doing. Did they expect me to tell them I was fine? I didn’t reply - better stay silent than lie, just to placate them. I thought he would like that.

The funeral was held a week later. Mycroft had done well - Sherlock would of approved. It was a quiet affair. So many believed the papers, and were still angry at the lies. I was angry - why couldn’t they see that the papers were the ones telling tales. Sherlock had helped them all and they’d turned on him. Even Lestrade kept his distance - I saw him watching from a distance. We stood around the grave, said our words, and then it was over. 

Even standing next to that freshly turned earth, I was still numb. 

——-

Three weeks, and I was hurting. I returned to my therapist, and moved out of the flat, leaving behind those constant reminders of the best year of my life, of the man who meant more to me that I care to say. If only it were as easy to leave my memories, as it had been to leave 221B.

I visited his grave for the first time since the funeral, and the last time, to say my goodbyes. To beg him to come back. I didn’t realize my heart could break further. 

He didn’t.

It did. 

For the first time since I lost him, and for the last time, I cried. Standing by his grave, staring at that shining black headstone with inscribed with that damn name, the tears finally came, burning and hot. I let them for a moment, unable to contain them any longer. But I’d seen too much death for tears. I forced myself to accept that this was just another farewell in such a long line. 

I shouldered my pain and turned away from Sherlock Holmes forever. 

———

Three months later, and I was surviving. Finally beginning to leave Sherlock behind. Not forget him, no, never forget him. I don’t think I could ever do that. But I was gaining some functionality back into my life. I was back at work, and had found my own flat. It wasn’t as nice as 221B, nor as homely or big. But at least there were no ghosts drifting inside the too bright white walls. At least there I didn’t wake in the middle of the night, convinced for a single shining moment that I could hear a violin singing through the dark. 

Unfortunatley, moving on also meant moving backwards. My limp reemerged, slowly at first, but then became bad enough that I needed a new cane, and struggled with stairs. I knew I should be disappointed, but it was just another dull ache -another psychosomatic pain to join the rest. I grew to accept the pain, live with it and ignore it as I went about my ordinary life. Dull, I could almost hear him moaning. Isn’t there something interesting to be done?

One day, I realized that I wasn’t hurting anymore. My limp still pained, and I still missed him, but thinking of him no longer sent my heart twisting in my chest. My stomach no longer dropped when my phone buzzed, and there was no longer disappointment when the sender wasn’t him. I could smile again, and then laugh. I began to find pleasure in life again, in a cup of tea, in a good book or a woman’s company. Slowly, things got better. 

I got better. 

I met Mary, and she proved I was still capable of love, of being loved - that grief was not the permanent, all consuming emotion I had feared it to be. I moved out of the little white flat and into a warm little house that we began to make our home. I married her, and although I looked to my side and wished Sherlock stood as my best man, I could lose my hurt in the joy of Mary’s smile. I was surviving. More than that - I had survived. 

And then, three years later, he came back.


End file.
